Absolutely Incurable
by OneDarkandStormyNight
Summary: Based on Mill Creek's 1950s series of Sherlock Holmes. However, it is not necessary to see the episodes before you read. Drabble 6: Attention ii, Summary: It was not until later that night that he thought on the matter again...
1. Underestimate

_As the summary states, this is a drabble based on the 1950s version of Sherlock Holmes, starring Ronald Howard as Holmes and H. Marion Crawford as Watson. A lot of them will be easy to understand, though, so don't worry if you've never seen them. I think I might actually make this into a series of drabbles, because every time I watch a show I'm getting 54,928,293,874,938 ideas crowding up my mind and I'm dying to write them all down.  
I dedicate these to my dear, sweet Zelle (**MamzelleCombeferre**), who is the only other person that I know who enjoys the old 1950s Sherlock Holmes like I do. This is for you, hun. Based off The Christmas Pudding, but you don't necessarily have to have seen it to understand what's happening._

**Underestimate**

The two constables, neither of which truly believed the stories which the inspectors told of the great Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his brave Boswell, sniggered to themselves as they discussed the two said men, at whose flat they had been posted to guard the detective against prison escapee John Henry Norton. Both Smith and Jones were in agreement on the opinion that Mr. Holmes himself seemed to be exactly what the rumors all said – superior, quick-witted, and valiant. However, they also agreed upon the point that the ex-Army medico was nothing as Constable Wilkins described. (1) Where their fellow policeman expressed a brave ex-soldier, mentally sound and very common-sensible, with quick reflexes and dependable might, Smith and Jones saw a not over-bright, half-crippled doctor, with a deep naiveté and a significant degree of incompetence, whose daft presence the great detective must take pains to endure.

So the two of them stood for some minutes, conversing beneath the lamppost, until said doctor came half-faltering through the front door of the house and fumbled with his coat buttons as he came down the front porch steps. When he spotted the two policemen, he stopped, glancing up at the lighted second-floor windows, where a lean silhouette loomed at the curtains.

"Watch out for him, gentlemen. I'm fearful that I won't be in time to do so myself."

Then he turned on his heel, placed his shiny black bowler firmly atop his round head, and disappeared into the fog.

Smith and Jones waited until his heavy footfalls had faded into the night before they began chuckling. What could this laughable, simple-minded, over-excitable man possibly do to protect the greatest detective in England against a multiple-times killer like Norton? Certainly he was not suggesting that he was more capable than they in such a situation!

Twenty minutes later, Smith was returning to his position when he spotted Jones lying unconscious in the alley alongside the 221 house. It was then that he understood how ruthless and violent this Norton fellow truly was. Desperately, he leapt to his feet toward the cracked door of the house, praying his own stupidity and slowness had not costed Sherlock Holmes his life.

When he rushed through the front door, Smith found the serial murderer lying at the bottom of the staircase, knocked completely unconscious by a well-aimed blow to the head.

"Ah, officer," called a perfectly steady, composed voice from the top of the seventeen stairs, "this is John Norton, the man you want. Take him away."

It took the constable all of five seconds to arrange his thoughts enough to wonder how the doctor had known to come back so hastily, and then he was mentally renouncing all his erroneous suppositions and vowing to himself that he would _never_ underestimate the man again.

* * *

(1) Wilkins is the name Inspector Lestrade's constable assistant.

* * *

_For anyone who would like to try one of these shows out, I guarantee they will not disappoint. Old they may be, but entertainment is something they do not lack. Ronald and H. Marion are the most loveable versions of Holmes and Watson I have ever seen (Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law included). Message me and I'll see if I can find a way to send you the link for one. Thanks for reading!_


	2. Bound

"_You are a very dangerous man, Mr. Holmes….You are placing yourself and Dr. Watson in jeopardy."_ – A Royal Murder

**Bound**

He had spoken the words deliberately, as an intended threat, meant to intimidate and discourage, for he knew full well that Sherlock Holmes had no tentativeness about putting his own self in harm's way. He had imagined that hearing how his any actions he took would put his pleasant friend Watson in danger along with him. Still, it did not entirely surprise him when Holmes did not break his gaze, only responded with a clear, unyielding answer that he had known of the hazard from the beginning. He appeared to have no compunction about bringing unjust sentence down upon the both of them, despite not having the verbal assurance of his companion.

He could not resist the urge to watch the doctor's reactions, to determine for himself whether the loyalty that he had seen would remain steadfast in the face of misfortune and disgrace, if the man's fate were to be irrevocably tied to Holmes'.

Dr. Watson followed Holmes obediently to the dungeon cell with not a word spoken to dissuade him. King Conrad had never seen anything like it in his life.

* * *

One hour later, at his request the two men explained the details of their incredible escape from the prison and their gallant rescuing of the princess from her secured room, whilst he listened on in utter fascination and undisguised amazement.

There was a moment of quiet as Watson stopped speaking to pour Holmes more tea (without him having to ask, he noted), and observed the familiar smile they shared at some quiet jest, the king realized exactly how ridiculous he had been to assume Holmes was single-minded and callous to potentially pull Watson down with him. Obviously these two friends had already been bound by something far greater than a trifling threat—something that gave them strength and faith enough to defy a king by reliance upon one another.

Holmes took up the story where Watson had left it, and he could not help but smile as he listened.

* * *

_Double-drabble. (Obviously.) Is it just me or did King Conrad resemble Jude Law's Watson? Maybe it was the light-colored mustache..._


	3. Vanish

_A million thank-yous to all my reviewers so far!  
Drabble for _The Haunted Gainsborough_…_

**Vanish**

It was not until, precisely one week after their return to Baker Street from MacGregan Castle, that Watson noticed something quite peculiar.

"Holmes, come and look at this."

His companion laid aside his cherished Stradivarius and shifted to lean over Watson's shoulder so that he might better see the map his friend was scrutinizing closely.

"What is it, old fellow?"

"I was just going over my notes for the story, and look what I found. Can you explain it, because I think I am miscalculating something or another."

"Explain what, Watson?" Holmes pressed patiently, amused by his open friend's look of utter bafflement.

"Here" – he ran his finger along an indicated path on the plans – "this secret passage leads from the drawing room to the roof."

"So I see," he replied.

"But it leads to _this_ corner, d'you see?"

"Yes."

Watson turned abruptly to face him, holding the map up and pointing to the opposite corner with his index finger.

"Then how," he said empathically, wide eyes peering over the top of the map somewhat comically, "did Heather disappear in _this_ corner?"

The dancing humor faded from Holmes' light eyes and was swiftly replaced with a expression of deep concentration at this new puzzle. Watson watched him attentively as the detective leaned forward to examine the map more closely, long fingers rubbing absentmindedly at his chin, as he was wont to do when thinking.

At long last, he straightened and looked at his expectant friend. The confusion still etched in his boyish features was answer enough for Watson.

"Holmes," he murmured, as if fearful of someone overhearing, "you don't think it's possible that…"

"No," Holmes interrupted hastily, and then, incredulously, "No."

"Are you positive?"

Holmes' hand wandered to the desk drawer and he removed an 18th-century silk glove from his case museum. The two friends gazed upon it in mystified amazement.

Down in the street, a lady with chestnut hair giggled and vanished.

* * *

_Happy Halloween, my dear readers!_


	4. Proud

_Drabble for_ The Neurotic Detective, _in which Holmes is hired by the British government to secretly test London's security by pretending to be a criminal himself._

**Proud**

He had told them from the beginning that it would be a tricky business. He and Watson had gone on nearly every one of his cases together since the Cunningham Heritage, on the first day of their moving into 221b, and so it was only expected that Watson would inevitably discover that he was working on one at present. It was strange to him—stranger than he had anticipated, in fact—to have secret meetings with unfamiliar new colleagues without his doctor at his elbow, but it was business, and he would be able to describe his actions once it was all concluded.

He had not expected the turn of events as the unfolded. After two days of avoiding Watson as much as possible, and doing all in his power to ignore his (highly entertaining) plots to "rescue" him from his apparent mistakes, Sherlock Holmes entered that grand study to see a pair of semi-worn, brown leather shoes poking out from beneath the heavy window drapes.

Watson had not only worked out Holmes' secret, but also guessed his next move, talked Lestrade into helping whisk him away to receive medical aid instead of arresting him for criminal activity (which was impressive in itself), followed him all the way to the diplomatic dress ball without been seen, and sneaked into the minister's office without Holmes ever knowing any of it.

And it was all due to the fact that the doctor had such faith in him, he believed any great flaw of Holmes' integrity could only be a symptom of a great mental disturbance.

Holmes was unsure whether to feel flattered or insulted, but he could not have been prouder.


	5. Attention

_Drabble for _The Red-Headed League, _in the beginning of which Holmes is riddling a poor piece of wood with bullets._

**Attention**

It was quite silly, he knew very well—foolish of him feel even the slightest bit…what as the word, exactly? He hastily dismissed "jealousy" as inappropriate. If only he, like the doctor, was a man of letters; then, perhaps, he could find an alternate word which did not make him feel so absurdly childish about the matter.

But, no. There was simply no other explanation for the microscopic twinge of bitterness which rolled once in his stomach when Watson offhandedly mentioned the friend from India who would be visiting to "relive the old days of excitement."

It was his inner prankster, he told himself, not jealousy, which prompted him to grasp Watson's attention with some indoor shooting the next morning as the other man was shaving in preparation for the reunion.

He never saw the look of utter fright upon the brave doctor's features as he ran, half-shaven, to where gunshots had emanated.

* * *

_I really could use some feedback on this one. I can't help feeling it's not clear enough, and perhaps a little out-of-character. What say ye?_


	6. Attention ii

_Semi-continuation of the last..._

**Attention ii**

He did not consider the matter again until much later that night, when "Vincent Spalding" and his co-conspirer had been locked away in the cells of Scotland Yard. It was then, as he sat sipping on the tea the good doctor had made for them both, and still recovering himself from the bouts of near-hysterical laughter which had arisen (though still unbeknownst to an unsuspecting Lestrade) as a rather private joke between the two of them, that the thought crossed his mind.

Watson had never gone to meet his old friend from India.

Sherlock Holmes smiled into his tea, realising he had wasted two perfectly fine bullets for no good reason at all.


End file.
